All They Needed
by Schmiezi
Summary: "And that was the main reason why John did not think that today was perfect. He was married to a woman he no longer loved, best friend of the man he loved instead, and had never found the guts to tell at least one of them the truth."


**This fic was written as a Secret Santa gift for SolarSystem, aka themanwiththeplan. I really hope you like it, dear.**

**The prompt was "an object that should play an important role: the fireplace in 221B".**  
><strong>Her deal breakers: Parentlock; Teenlock; AU; any kind of love story that involves Mary as main protagonist<strong>  
><strong>She said she would generally like to read about Johnlock (hurtcomfort, fluff, romance); exploring the relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft; something about Mary/John/Sherlock.**

**Thanks to katzedecimal and Grizzy for high-speed beta-reading. You are wonderful, ladies!**

* * *

><p><strong>All they needed<strong>

This should be perfect, shouldn't it? John was sure that it should.

He suppressed a sigh and looked down at Deborah, who was very close to falling asleep in his arms. There was a content smile on her face, and that alone should be enough to make the day perfect, right? His daughter was six months old now, and content smiling was a relatively new achievement.

She was babbling sleepily, probably telling John's jumper all about her day. A warm feeling spread inside of John. Who would have thought that he would love being a father?

He looked up to watch Sherlock and Mary, who were busy trying to light a fire in 221b's fireplace. Only recently had Sherlock hired a firm that turned his gaslight fake fireplace into a real one, and now he and Mary decided to make 221b a bit cosier. They were having little success, mainly because they both had absolutely no idea how to light a fire, but they were clearly having fun and enjoying each other's company.

It was a little miracle how their relationship had survived the shot in the chest. If anything, they seemed to get on better than ever.

Apparently he was the only one who had stopped loving Mary that day at Leinster Gardens.

And that was the main reason why John did not think that today was perfect. He was married to a woman he no longer loved, best friend of the man he loved instead, and had never found the guts to tell at least one of them the truth.

For good reasons, of course.

The best reason was sitting in his lap, stubbornly fighting sleep. Deb was just perfect, and as much as it had surprised him, Mary turned out to be a good mother. They were a good team, he and Mary, at least when it came to raising a child. And didn't a child need both mother and father?

Mary's laughter broke through his thoughts. Sherlock chimed in, and John felt like something bitter was boiling inside of him. Whatever Mary had said or done, it could not have been that funny, right? No reason for Sherlock to be that amused, right?

Oh Jesus, John felt like an ungrateful idiot. He should be glad that the two of them got along so well. Instead he was … what? Jealous? No, that was not it. Discontent, disappointed by himself? Yes, more like it.

He had no right to be discontent. He was married to a woman who, besides all her character flaws, was a wonderful mother to his daughter. Character flaws like being a liar, being egocentric, being cocky, being …

No, that was not the reason why he was starting to dislike her. Sherlock was egocentric and cocky and an occasional liar as well. The difference between them was that deep down inside, Sherlock was a good man.

Deep down inside of her, Mary was simply an egoistical liar.

Was that really it? John had to bite his lip to stop himself from sighing. There was no need to try and blame it all on Mary. She was who she was, and he had fallen for her, once, when he was …

Deb suddenly started crying, and only seconds after that she had fallen asleep on John's arm. He couldn't help but smile. It was always the same. She would never fall asleep without a little fight. Just when he stood up to place her in the travel bed Sherlock had bought just for her, Mary's voice pierced through the flat.

"You should lay her down in her travel bed, John."

That was all John's nerves needed to snap. He got up way too fast, unable to hide his anger. "What a wonderful idea," he hissed. "I would have never thought about it myself." He tried to keep his voice low so he wouldn't wake up Deb, but he saw that Mary got the point. Carefully, he placed his daughter in her bed and threw Mary an accusing glance afterwards.

Instead of apologising or acknowledging why he was angry, she instantly started to distance herself. "It was only a suggestion," she said, voice cold, pretending not to understand why he was so angry all of a sudden.

That's what she always did. Even when John had tried to tell her that she was forgiven, one year ago, she had been bossy and arrogant instead of being grateful.

John was vaguely aware that the two situations didn't have too much in common, only that Mary drove him crazy with … well, with being herself.

At a loss of words at that realisation, he did what always drove Mary crazy. He fled.

###

John's sudden departure hit Sherlock by surprise. From his point of view, the evening had been as close to perfect as evenings could be lately. When the Watsons had arrived, Sherlock had entertained Deborah, which was always a lot more fun than he had thought it would be.

Afterwards, when John had taken over the baby, Sherlock had really really tried to be good friends with Mary. As always. Not easy, that one, but he was getting better and better at pretending.

And then, out of nowhere, John had gotten angry and left the flat, leaving his girls alone with Sherlock. Mary had tried to pretend she wasn't furious. She had also tried to call John, but it turned out that his mobile was still lying on the table next to her. She had waited for him to come back for a while and then she had given up and taken the baby home.

When Mary and Deborah were gone, Sherlock sat down in his chair, immediately lost in thought. There was more to John's outburst than momentary anger. He was clearly unhappy, bordering on depressed. As to why, Sherlock was completely clueless. All he knew was that John being unhappy was an unacceptable condition. It hurt Sherlock way too much.

He sighed. Back in the beginning of their friendship, things had been so easy to resolve. A psychosomatic limp, a craving for adventure, those had been things Sherlock could handle. But now he was at a loss.

He entered his mind palace, swiftly walking into the room he created for John only. Funny room, that. He had intended it to be a nice version of the room where they had inspected the body of Jennifer Wilson. But every time Sherlock let his concentration slip, it changed into his old nursery at his parents' house.

Anyway. He stood in front of the wall he had used as a giant notebook when he was a child and started writing a list of reasons why John should be happy. It read:

loves his wonderful daughter

loves his wife

wife loves him

daughter adores him (as far as possible at that age)

wife provides certain amount of danger

wife has not killed someone recently

best friend provides certain amount of danger

best friend gets along with wife

best friend loves adorable daughter to pieces

He thought about adding "best friend loves John more than his own life" but decided against it. It was true, of course, but John was not to know, and so it was pointless to list it here.

It was a long list that made the reasons behind John's starting depression even less comprehensible. Well, maybe he needed to look at it from another angle. So next to the first list, Sherlock wrote down a second one. Reasons for John to be unhappy. But no matter how hard he thought about it, Sherlock could come up with only two points:

daughter regularly pukes on all his favourite jumpers

best friend broke his new reading glasses on purpose

And the last one shouldn't even count, as they had been really unflattering. In fact, John should have been happy about it. So Sherlock moved that point to the first list and was still completely clueless about why John was so unhappy.

Sherlock tried to go through his recent memories of things they had done together, to find out if there were clues he had missed. But that didn't quite work out. It was rather annoying. The deeper his love for John grew, the more distracted he became when watching him in his mind. So instead of analysing his face for signs of dismay, he got lost in how wonderful the (lately very rare) smiles were.

And who had thought that it was possible to for his (one-sided) love to grow that deeply? What had started as mild curiosity and secret pining had now turned out to be something very serious. Well, pointless to think about it. It had nothing to do with John's state of mind and was hence of minor importance.

When Sherlock got out of his mind palace, he found Mycroft sitting opposite him in John's chair.

Damn.

Did Mycroft know how much that bloody chair occupied Sherlock's mind? He had tried to relabel that chair, so it would stop being "John's (abandoned) chair" and simply be "a chair". Didn't work.

He had moved that chair to another room, so he would not be reminded of John's absence every day. But that had only left a John's-chair-shaped hole in the fabric of the room.

Currently he was working very hard on seeing it as a reminder that John existed, even when he was not here. A reminder that once there had been a time where Sherlock woke up happy about his company.

The fact that Mycroft was sitting in it while Sherlock had been thinking about John was definitely no coincidence.

"Leave," Sherlock snarled, knowing that it would have little to no effect on his brother. It felt good, anyway.

Mycroft just smiled at him. It was an arrogant, smug smile but the worst part of it was that there was honest pity and understanding in it. Mycroft having pity on him was even worse than Mycroft trying to control his life or Mycroft being the clever one.

"Trouble in paradise?" Mycroft asked, "Are there shadows looming over the little Watson family?"

"That's none of your business" Sherlock snapped. For a while, Sherlock pretended to ignore Mycroft. He picked up his violin and played a few notes. Then he made himself tea. Then he sorted some of his papers that were scattered on the floor. Then he tried to light that fire again, only to fail once more.

All the time he felt Mycroft's slightly sardonic smile following him wherever he went.

When he finally accepted that his brother wouldn't go away any time soon, he sat back in his chair again.

"Other people would be glad about such a development," his brother went on as if there had not been an eighteen minute break, "Think about it. If John and Mary broke up, you could finally make your move to make John all yours."

Mycroft's eyes pierced right through him. There was a snappish remark on Sherlock's lips already, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to say it. Because Mycroft was right, of course. A divorce would be the best thing for Sherlock to happen. Even if there was no chance that John would ever love him, he would surely move back in here again.

Yes, a divorce would be nice for Sherlock but would it also be good for John? Surely not.

"I am not like other people," Sherlock simply stated instead.

Mycroft still watched him closely, and something changed in his expression. "No, you are not," he said, surprisingly soft. "But that does not mean that you have to remain unhappy for the rest of your life."

Little signs of brotherly fondness always left Sherlock speechless and today was no exception. Mycroft seemed to wait for an answer for a while, then sighed a little. "You should tell him how you feel," he said. Then he picked up his coat and his umbrella and left without looking back.

Getting advice from Mycroft was a hateful thing in general. Getting good advice from Mycroft regarding his love life was unbearable. But when Sherlock finally came up with a very clever remark, Mycroft was long gone.

Damn.

He considered throwing his tea cup at the door just to make a point, but what was the sense in that? For a moment Sherlock longed for the times when he would have thrown it without even thinking about it.

When he was placing the cup in the sink (where it would mysteriously disappear sometime tomorrow, only to reappear in the cupboard, cleaned and dried. He suspected Mrs Hudson's doing here but never bothered to find it out) he heard distinctive steps on the stairs.

John.

"I forgot my jacket and my mobile when I left," John stated the obvious after coming in. For some reason, John was the only person in the world who could state the obvious without driving Sherlock insane. Probably because Sherlock loved the sound of his voice.

"It's over there," Sherlock gestured to the chair. He felt like he should say something else but wasn't sure what.

Apparently, John felt as awkward as Sherlock. "Yes, uhm, thanks," he stammered. "I really should go home and apologise or something."

Which was stupid, really. What John really needed to do was talk to Mary to find out why he was that sad. But that wouldn't happen, right? They didn't talk like that. They just … went on.

Oh. A new thought crossed Sherlock's mind. Was it his job as best friend and best man to talk to John about his feelings?

A frightening thought but surely true.

"You are depressed," he started and immediately regretted that. Not the most subtle opener. But then, John wasn't for subtleties anyway.

"No," John lied, avoiding Sherlock's glare.

"You have no reason to be depressed," Sherlock went on.

"Oh, really?" John answered, sarcasm think in his voice now. "Well, then I will just start to feel happy again. Thanks a lot, all my problems are solved now." He had nearly shouted the end and was now looking at Sherlock with a strange look in his eyes. A mixture of regret and relief.

Boy, Sherlock really felt out of his depth.

"So you _are_ having problems" he stated.

Judging from John's sarcastic laughter that was true.

"Tell me about them?" Sherlock ventured on. It sounded more like a question in his ears, for he was still feeling completely out of his depth. They didn't do talks like that. For a good reason. They were both rubbish at it.

John looked like he wanted to leave again. He started to fidget, his hands opening and closing again and again. He was clearly fighting for composure.

"I," he said, slowly and nearly controlled, "don't have any reason to be depressed, do I? No reason to feel bad, except that I am a complete idiot." He was shouting again. One of the many good things about John was that Sherlock never felt insulted when shouted at by him.

But why did he think so low of himself? Curiously, Sherlock went on to navigate blindly through this talk, "Apparently you are not. You are a wonderful father and a loving husband." Something was happening in John's face, but Sherlock couldn't identify it. So instead he continued, "You are the best best friend anyone could have and ...

"If I really were a good man, I wouldn't still be married to the woman who shot the man I love," John blurted out in his anger. And froze.

###

Damn. This was not at all what he had wanted to say. When Sherlock didn't answer, John looked up and saw that he stared at some undefined spot in front of him, not moving. Only the rapid blinking of his eyes told John that there was some kind of thought process going on. John mentally kicked himself. He had never intended for that to be said.

For a while, both men remained silent. Then Sherlock looked up, utterly confused, and asked, "Who else did she shoot lately?"

Now it was John's turn to stare in confusion. "What are you talking about?" he asked, not comprehending what Sherlock's question was about.

"You said," Sherlock explained, speaking very slowly, as if trying to understand something very very complicated, "that she shot the man you love. But the only recent victim I know of is me. So, who else got shot?"

Oh. But that would mean that Sherlock really didn't know. Could that be true?

John had to think of how he reacted when asked to be John's best man. And then it all made sense. Sherlock had no idea he was loved.

"You," John answered, a bit surprised by how soft his own voice sounded, "I am talking about you."

"Oh," Sherlock said. He froze again, a far away look in his eyes, a frown on his face. Apparently gone to his mind palace, probably to analyse every single thing John has ever said or done.

John waited for him to return to the real world for a few minutes. And for a few minutes more. And some more. Nothing. That gave John way too much time to think about how stupid he'd been again. How could he not notice that Sherlock had been completely oblivious to John's feelings? Sherlock had had problems understanding he was John's best friend. No wonder he couldn't comprehend that John, that anyone could be in love with him.

Would it have changed things if John had known that Sherlock hadn't known? Yes. He could have told Sherlock and … No. He wouldn't have done that. Not after the wedding. But before. Before Sherlock had jumped into his non-death. All this time John had thought that Sherlock had ignored his stares on purpose.

But what difference would it have made?

After fifteen minutes of fruitless contemplating, John got up to make some tea. When he returned to the living room with two cups, Sherlock was still gone inside his mind.

So John sat down and wondered about what to do once Sherlock reappeared from his mind palace. What was he thinking about John's feelings anyway? Was he flattered? Surely. It was not like Sherlock to miss an opportunity to be flattered.

Was he embarrassed? Probably. But surely only because he had missed the clues. Angry? Who knows.

Would it change their friendship? Well, the real question was, could Sherlock handle the fact that John was unrequited in love with him?

Was it unrequited?

Yes. Yes, of course it was. Sherlock was the most self-centred man John knew. If Sherlock had been in love with John at some point of their relationship, he would have let John know and would have taken whatever he needed.

Or not?

John let out an exasperated sigh. Right now he felt like he didn't know anything any more.

When Sherlock had not moved for more than thirty minutes, John got up and lit the fire Sherlock and Mary had been clumsily trying to light before. It was getting dark outside, and the fire's soft glow made Sherlock's face look soft and warm. There was still a frown on his face, but there were also wrinkles that hadn't been there when they had met. Laughter lines around his eyes. Was he happy with his life?

Usually John was very careful not to look at Sherlock like that. Was that one reason why Sherlock was hit so completely by surprise?

After another thirty minutes, John sent Mary a text. "Back at 221b. No longer angry. Still need some time here." He thought about adding, "Sorry" or "Don't worry. Everything's fine." But everything was far from being fine, and "Sorry" was too shallow for the blunder he had made.

After another thirty minutes, he helped himself to the left-overs from the fridge, hoping it was really just Thai and not some experiment.

When Sherlock hadn't moved for nearly two hours, John got restless. They really needed to talk about it, one way or another. Besides Deb there was nothing in the world as important to John as Sherlock, and their friendship being in ruins was unacceptable.

He tried to get Sherlock out of his trail of thoughts by calling his name, but to no avail. Then John gently touched his arm.

For the first time ever, that worked. Sherlock blinked rapidly, then focused on John. His expression was unreadable. He cleared his throat. "You … love me," he stated then, and finally met John's eyes.

John nodded, not sure what to say next.

Sherlock seemed to be at a loss of words, too, and after a while, John felt like he needed to say something or they would continue staring at each other for the next two hours or so.

"Look," he started, "I shouldn't have..."

And then suddenly, he was in Sherlock's arms,hidden in a clumsy yet fierce embrace, his face pressed against Sherlock's chest. "You really love me," Sherlock said again, this time marvel and happiness in his voice.

John drew back a little to look at Sherlock, really, just to look at him, but all of a sudden they were kissing, and John managed to think how wonderful that felt, and then he didn't get to think for quite a while.

###

"I never did that before," Sherlock felt the need to confess afterwards. They were lying on the carpet in front of the fireplace, side by side, still completely naked. John's head resting on Sherlock's chest, their legs tangled. John's hair tickling Sherlock's cheek.

The fire in the fireplace right next to them was making peaceful noises, giving John's face an almost unearthly glow. It was quite possible that Sherlock had never been that happy in all his life.

"Really?" John asked, sounding surprised. "Oh, wow. I mean, you were really good and you seemed to know exactly what we were doing and ..."

"Not sex," Sherlock huffed. Or tried to huff, while he rather felt like giggling because John had just said that he had been really good. "This."

John raised his head a little, still looking very surprised. "Staying together afterwards to cuddle?"

Sherlock felt himself flushing. He nodded wordlessly, and felt John's head come to a rest on his chest again. "In that case," John said with a warm smile in his voice, "I am flattered to be your first." He reached for a blanket that was lying nearby and covered them both.

They fell silent again, completely content with feeling each other. Sherlock let his hand trail up and down John's arm, felt the little hairs, the softness of his skin. He had had fantasies about touching John like that, but he would have never thought that he would be allowed to actually do it in real life. And to think he could do it again, whenever he ...

But John was an honourable man. No matter how long they both had been waiting for that to happen, Sherlock knew that sooner or later John's mind would stumble over the fact that he had just cheated on his wife. And who knew how he would deal with that fact. Maybe it was better to get over with it now.

"What will happen next?" he asked, and when he felt John's body tense up, he moved even closer. He tried to tell himself that he wanted to comfort John with this gesture, and not himself.

In his mind palace, he watched his future unravel on the old TV in his nursery. John would tell him that he needed to stay with his wife and daughter. Sherlock would be understanding and try to get over the fact that their love would always be unfulfilled. So would John. They would both fail, seeing each other more and more seldom because it would simply be too painful. In the end, Sherlock would be sitting in front of a cottage somewhere in the country. Old. Alone.

Or John would leave Mary. She would flee the country, taking Deb with her. They would try to find Deb but fail. John would try not to blame Sherlock for losing his daughter, but in the end he would fail too. Would rather leave Sherlock than grudging him every day. Sherlock would be sitting in front of a cottage somewhere in the country. Old. Alone.

Or John would …

"... love you."

What? He blinked.

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" John asked, more amused than offended, and Sherlock could do only so much as shaking his head. There was still a strange lump in his throat that silenced him.

But John smiled warmly and explained, "I said that I didn't regret what happened, and that it will happen again and again. Because I love you." He stretched a bit to press a not so chaste kiss on Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock felt it, he really, truly felt all the love John had been hiding inside of him for so long.

"I will have to sort it out with Mary," John then goes on. "And I might need Mycroft's help when it comes to the …

"Well, we can sort it out right now," Mary's voice cut through the room, ice cold and bitter.

Sherlock took a second to mentally kick himself in the backside. He should have heard her entering the flat. He should have been more alert. Should have locked the door.

He had never felt that naked before when he looked up and saw her pointing a gun at them.

She was fully aware of what had happened here, of course. (It really didn't take a genius to figure that one out.) She was angry and hurt and determined. The gun was aimed at John, who, like Sherlock himself, was completely naked, in more than one way.

In Sherlock's head, the TV started playing again, this time in black and white. Mary shooting John. John dying right next to Sherlock, who is forced to watch helplessly. Sherlock standing at John's grave. Sherlock, bitter and broken, sitting in front of a cottage somewhere in the country. Old. Alone.

The pain he felt in his chest now was much worse than the one Mary had caused when she shot him one year ago.

"I am sorry," he heard John say, "I should have talked to ..."

"Shut the fuck up," Mary interrupts him.

She is beyond reason, Sherlock realised. No way out for them except overpowering her. Given the fact they were both on the wrong side of a loaded gun, and that there was no suitable weapon within reach, their chances were small.

She would kill John.

For a moment, Sherlock's mind blanked out. He should find a solution. He should find a way out. He should come up with a plan, but the thought of John dying was unbearable, and he could no longer think at all.

"Mary," John started again, and Sherlock could literally see something snapping inside of her.

He knew that he should do something, anything. But his mind refused to work. Sheer horror was spreading through his body, through his brain, and he knew he should do something. Instead, he could only watch.

The gunshot rang loud in his ears. So did John's short, pain-filled scream. They were still lying so close that Sherlock could feel how John's body stiffened for a second. Then it seemed to lose all tension. He felt John's head slump down on his chest.

No. Please please not.

Ignoring the danger Mary still presented for himself, he reached for John's neck. There, a pulse. Too fast, too weak, but there. Where was he hit? Oh, stomach. Painful. Good that he had faded out instantly.

His caring instinct, the one he always denied to have, kicked in. Frantically, he pressed the blanket against John's wound, telling him softly that he needed to hold on, that everything would be all right again, that ...

"Oh fuck, Sherlock," Mary snarled, "you pathetic little lamb. Shut up and face death like a man."

Not dignifying her threat with looking up, he snapped, "Why don't you shut up and get it over with instead?"

He didn't look at her, because he would never want her to be the last thing he saw. Keeping his eyes fixed on John, he steeled himself for the final gunshot.

Only that instead, he heard a rather unceremonious sound that could be inscribed like "clung". Completely surprised, he looked up. Mary was gone, replaced by Mrs Hudson, who was swinging a frying pan.

"Poor girl," she said, looking down at Mary, "She never really got over her past, did she?"

Sherlock's brain needed one point eight seconds to keep up with reality, then it was back online. He renewed his pressure on John's abdomen with one hand, checking his pulse with the other while shouting at Mrs Hudson, "Ambulance!"

"Already called for one, dear," she answered, and only a little flutter gave away that her feelings were in turmoil, "Using the special number your brother once gave me."

Good. That was good. Sherlock looked down at John again, who was still unconscious. "Hold on, John," he prayed, not sure if he only thought it or said it loud. It didn't matter, anyway. All that mattered now was John's life.

**### **

Before waking up properly, John drifted in and out consciousness for a while. He couldn't react, couldn't even think, just felt himself floating. Sometimes it was dark, sometimes bright, but there was one constant all the time: he could always feel Sherlock's presence.

When he finally woke up properly, he wasn't at all surprised to see Sherlock sitting by his side. John blinked, finding that he couldn't speak, most likely due to a breathing tube. But he felt Sherlock's hand on his own. For right now, that was all John needed right now.

All was well until Sherlock started speaking. "John," he whispered, his voice raw. Only now did John see the dark circles underneath his eyes, the pallor of his skin, his blood-shot eyes. Oh. Looked like John had been out cold for a while, probably in a quite serious condition.

He wished he could tell Sherlock he was fine, but shouldn't Sherlock deduce that anyway? But instead of relaxing, Sherlock tensed visibly. "John, I ..." he tried again, and stopped. And before John could fully process it, Sherlock had stood up and uttered, "I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't."

He was gone faster than John's eyes could follow him.

A nurse had to tell John all he missed back at 221b, about Mrs Hudson knocking down Mary, about Sherlock frantically trying to keep John's bleeding at bay, about being brought to hospital to have an emergency operation that saved his life.

About Mrs Hudson picking up Deb from the babysitter and taking her to Baker Street with her.

About Mary ending up in the same hospital, recovering from the head injury she had suffered. She should have been transferred to the hospital ward of Holloway Prison by now, but someone had delayed that transfer. That way John would get a chance to talk to her before she was locked away for attempted murder on her husband as well as for the attempted murder on Sherlock Holmes one year ago.

The nurse also told John how Sherlock had spent eleven days in a row by John's side, only to flee the very moment John had woken up.

Before he could give all that another thought, John drifted off again, still exhausted.

When he woke up the next time, he was alone.

The breathing tube was removed then, the medication was changed, and a physiotherapist came to discuss how they would get John up and running again soon.

Still no sight of Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson paid a short visit, fussing over John, trying to play down her heroic deed while beaming with pride the whole time.

When it came to Sherlock, she just shook her head. "I don't know what is going on in his funny brain," she said with a sigh one day. "He looks like a ghost. Barely eats, doesn't sleep … Threw a tantrum when I came to clean the last remains of your blood stain. And God forbid if I try and clean the fireplace."

When he was alone again, John tried not to worry about him but failed.

Then, Mycroft paid an unexpected visit. John was not sure if he could stand talking to him in his current weak state but to his surprise, Mycroft made a pleasant company. Mostly because he refused to beat around the bush.

"You know that legally speaking, you are not married to her because she used a fake identity. I took the liberty of arranging the paperwork to make the annulment official. One word from you and it will be done," he said instead of the usual how are you banter.

"Thank you, Mycroft" John answered, honestly grateful. He would still have to deal with the fact that he cheated on her, even if it was only this one time and even though the marriage was not legal. But right now there were more pressing questions to be dealt with.

"What about Deb?" he asked.

"Oh, I have also prepared papers to give you sole custody," Mycroft explained smugly. For once, John didn't mind that. For once, he was glad that Mycroft was such a manipulative meddler.

"It will be sole custody until" Mycroft went on, thoughtfully, "You find … someone you'd like to share custody with." John couldn't help but think of Sherlock instantly, who seemed to love Deb to pieces. Sherlock, who was God knows where at that moment, fighting some demons John didn't have a clear idea of.

Those thoughts did not pass unnoticed. Mycroft gave him the most piercing glare John had ever been exposed to, snorted, and left without a word.

About one hour later he returned, a sulking Sherlock right behind him. John couldn't help but imagine that Mycroft had dragged his little brother here by the ear.

"This is unacceptable, brother," Mycroft hissed. "Your cowardice prevents John from healing properly. Get over your childish little trauma and talk to him!"

With that, he left the two. In the door, he stopped again, and added, "Tell him about Redbeard if you must, and get the hell over it."

"Redbeard?" John asked, and Sherlock flushed. It made him look nearly irresistible.

Then he shook his head. "Our family dog when I was a child and absolutely irrelevant right now."

He was still standing in front of the bed. Too far away for John's liking. Out of his reach. When John tried to sit up to reduce the distance between them, he regretted that instantly. Despite the narcotics he got, there was a sharp pain in his stomach. Stupid.

He had to lay his head down again and tried not to start panting. He would need a long time to heal.

At least his stupid move made Sherlock come closer after all. "You are in pain," Sherlock blurted out. Then he shook his head and started babbling, "Of course you are in pain. Why do I state the obvious? I never state the obvious. I should do something else instead, right? Hold your hand or something. I always held your hand, all eleven days. Why don't I hold it now? Can I? But I don't know how you feel about it. Us. Is there an us? I really ..."

"Sherlock," John said with exasperation. Sherlock stopped dead and stared at him.

"Sherlock," John said again. He was way too weak to be polite now. All he wanted was Sherlock by his side and some peace of mind. Soon. So he bluntly went on, "Why did you leave?"

At that, Sherlock seemed to collapse back onto himself. He sat down on John's bed and stared at the blanket. "I ..." he started and stopped. Then he started again, "I got scared. When Mary pointed the gun at you. So scared that I couldn't think of a single thing to do to help you."

He looked terribly forlorn. Vulnerable. John knew exactly how he felt.

"I've been through the same thing once," he told Sherlock softly. Their hands were interlocked now but John had no idea who had grabbed whose hand first. It didn't matter anyway.

"Really?" Sherlock eyes him curiously, "When?"

Thinking of it was still painful, but John knew that they needed to get it out of their minds now. "When you were standing on that roof top and I simply couldn't find the right words to stop you from killing yourself."

His words were hanging between them for a while. They had never talked about it before, not like this. It was more than overdue.

And it was necessary. The past years have left them both damaged. Sherlock's faked suicide, John's marriage, Appledore, their first over-hasty sex and its consequences.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, John was sure that they were redder than usual. "I've never been in a relationship before, John," he said then, quietly and austere. "Is it possible for lovers to be happy together even when there has been so much hurt and pain in their past?"

Lovers. Hearing this was all John really needed. Raising his head would cause too much damage to his belly, so he pulled Sherlock down to himself instead. He should probably say something meaningful now, something important. Instead, he kissed Sherlock, soft and gentle, and then not so soft, again and again.

They would have to talk some more, soon. But for now, they were together and in love and that was all they needed.


End file.
